


an unexpected development

by wrenkos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Fluff, Light Angst, Wyverns, also maribelle and lucina now that i think about it, robin lissa and chrom are just mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 01:00:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17294675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wrenkos/pseuds/wrenkos
Summary: Many died on the battlefield. She had grown careless and assumed it wouldn’t be her, thinking when it was her time it would be when she was old and gray and satisfied with her scientific accomplishments.A foolish thought.





	an unexpected development

**Author's Note:**

> tw descriptions of injury. miriel gets shot with an arrow

The wind tome Robin had purchased for her (a logical choice, her old tomes were getting older and somewhat ineffective and they only had so many uses before the book itself fell apart) caused the force of nature itself to come from her fingertips, blasting aside enemies with gusts of air. In the rushed preparations - one she didn’t blame for, the Risen were acting unusually smart for those with, assumedly, no brain, and also the fact that they snuck up on the camp - to battle, it appeared she had strayed from the rest of the group somewhat. Vaguely she could hear the sounds of fighting, but beside the book gripped in her hands and the beat of wings somewhere, Miriel appeared to be alone.

Not the best idea when one was on the battlefield, even if she preferred solitary when working out of battle.

If this were a living army she was sure she would be captured, interrogated, or perhaps killed, or some horrific mixture of both. Alas, she could hope for a rescue staff to be used or for a flier to spot her and lend a hand. But a dead one, she doubted it. Only a merciless death and suffering in her last moments.

Another archer, blown back, and she grit her teeth at her thought, pushing it out of her mind. With this many archers about, she notes, a flier would be unlikely to help unless they wanted their mount to die. In idiotic notion in itself.

Going over the ledge, if such a stunt was possible, would help, since that was where she deduced the source of her comrades were, but turning her back to risen - and risen equipped with bows and throwing spears, no less - increased the chances of her death by quite a bit. For now, she was trapped, but from the looks of things there weren’t as much as there were before. Hopefully someone killed their commander.

“Begone, foul miscreation,” she mutters under her breath, striking a soldier down. Another page containing the source of energy for the spell is used, and she flips through it quickly. More powerful, less uses. A shame.

She turns, throwing another spell at another undead soldier, faintly hearing rustling nearby. Perhaps an ally, or perhaps -

Reinforcements.

A sniper, it looks like, and with its bow drawn and she has barely enough time to register those facts before an arrow is shot. Realization dawns.

The arrow is meant for her, and from the looks of it, it will hit true.

In that moment, it is instinct that carries through, not the result of calculated, planned attacks, and three things happen.

One, she fires the Elwind spell.

Two, it fails to effectively deter the arrow from its path. Perhaps stop it from striking her in the heart or the head, yes, but still, it will hit true to her at this rate.

And three, it does, in fact, hit her. In the stomach, and she lets out a cry of pain, the tome falling from her fingers and she, too, falls to the ground.

The pain is excruciating.

She hears a thud as the sniper falls from the Elwind spell, but that does not stop the rest of the risen from approaching her. Any moment, now. The mystery of what was beyond death was about to be solved, against the dirt and mud of an unknown canyon.

The least they could have done was to give her a quick death, she things, vaguely, shutting her eyes. Many died on the battlefield. She had grown careless and assumed it wouldn’t be her, thinking when it was her time it would be when she was old and gray and satisfied with her scientific accomplishments.

A foolish thought. 

Perhaps the boys and girls and laughing children from her village were right, she thinks. She’ll die alone.

(Observation: one’s thoughts are regretful when about to die.)

She hears the beat of wings, closer, and the cry of a dragon to snap her eyes open and confirms she is not just listening to the sound of her ears ringing. She manages to vaguely identifying her “hero” - long, straight pink hair, and this is all she need to confirm that it is Cherche. A relatively new, but in the same hand, relatively respected already, member of the Shepherds.

Regardless, Cherche’s axe strikes one of the risen standing in front of her, with her wyvern - Minerva, she recalls. After one of the warriors of old, she presumes - strikes some other warriors down with her tail. She had asked herself once if there was a difference between those who fought on wyverns and those who fought on pegasi, and that seems like something only a wyvern could pull off.

And then, a pair of (very strong, she thinks somewhere in her hazy mind) arms pick her up, in the same fashion a groom may have picked up a bride. A position she would have never allowed if she wasn’t on death’s doorstep and if Cherche wasn’t an ally.

“Miriel, was it?”

“Yes.”

“Arrow wounds,” she clicks her tongue, looking down at her, and then she gets on top Minerva, with the reins thrust into Miriel’s hands. “Always a messy business. Hang on tight.”

One of Cherche’s hands is on her shoulder, as if to stabilize her, while the other grips the handle of her own axe. She barely registers that until the wyvern takes off into the air and she squeezes the rope out of sheer instinct.

“Stay with me, Miriel. If you lose consciousness…”

Ah. Yes. Staying conscious would lead to death. Not dying was something very beneficial. She opens her mouth and her brain latches onto the closest thought (besides noting how inefficient Cherche’s armor is).

“Arrows,” she says, voice more clipped than usual. “You said, and I quote, messy business. Elaborate, please.”

Cherche’s eyes flick down to her before back to the sky, “I’ll have you know I was trained as a cleric. Before I met Minerva, of course.”

“Fascinating,” she mumbles, but that’s more of her way of acknowledging the statement.

“They’re messy to deal with. A clean shot, yes, but when removed it leads a bloody trail. Move without removing it makes the pain worse. It’s only quick when it’s at the heart and when it’s at the head.”

Miriel makes a noise of agreement. A blunt, graphic way of putting it, but nevertheless, it is true.

“...The battle is nearly over,” she continues, “Commander Chrom and Robin are heading to the opposing commander now. Libra has a medical tent set up already.”

“How do the others fare?”

“You’re likely one of the worse ones, from what I’ve seen.”

Shameful, Miriel thinks, before nodding. “I see.”

“There it is -” Cherche points with her axe, and Miriel cranes her neck to see it. (There is dirt in one of her glasses lens, she thinks.) “Minerva, if you will so kindly…”

* * *

Miriel is told to recover - it won’t take long. Although not a directly life-threatening wound, she should get lots of rest and not risk an infection or opening it up again by going into battle.

(Chrom’s daughter from the future, Lucina, tells her to be careful. Although the notion that she is from the future is difficult to wrap her head around, there is proof, and the words nerve her slightly. In Lucina’s world, she is dead already.)

A visitor in her tent stirs her from her thoughts, and Miriel’s eyes snap up to see a figure she now owes her life to.

“Cherche. Good day.”

“Miriel,” the woman in question smiles, “I hear that recovery is going smoothly?”

“It is. Only to you, and your heroic antics that brought me to the medical tent in the first place.”

“Heroic antics? Why, you flatter me!” she laughs, “...Ah, but I came here to tell you that we’re ready to march now. Minerva and I will be taking you.”

“...I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t look so surprised! She thinks your hat is cute.”

“...Fascinating. Am I to assume we are to fly airborne whilst the preferred method of transportation for the others are on horseback or on foot?”

“Yes. Now, come along, we haven’t got all day. I hear we’re headed to the Ruins of Life to find what the rumors call Naga’s Tear…”

* * *

So Miriel finds herself behind Cherche, hands firmly on the other woman’s waist.

“Breathtaking, isn’t it? Do you like heights?”

“No more and no less than the average layperson.”

She giggles. “I should take you for a ride sometime. Wouldn’t you like that, Minerva?”

The wyvern roars in response. Miriel is reminded of why she doesn’t exactly like wyverns, but now she owes a life debt to one.

“...Perhaps.”

Cherche laughs again. “You’re always so direct. It’s quite refreshing.”

Miriel frowns. “Refreshing?”

“Need I repeat myself?”

“No, I am often told otherwise is all. Often others frown upon my manner of speech, but you seem to be...unfazed by it. Even going so far to call it refreshing...I must admit, it is.” Words fail to find the proper word. “New.”

“A shame, really. I enjoy talking to you. Others are just cruel.”

“These others you speak of our the ones that fight alongside us.” Along with the ones that laughed and sneered at her behind her back, but that is besides the point. “And I seem to recall that we have had few conversations for you to come to that conclusion. Needless to say, it seems others find me unattractive.”

“A shame! I think you’re quite cute!”

Miriel blinks. “Cute?”

“Cute and refreshing, yes. Your glasses are just charming.”

“I. My usage of the word unattractive was in regards to the speaking level--”

“Oh, I know. I -- oh?”

Miriel is about to open her mouth to ask if something is wrong, but notes that Cherche’s gaze is downwards. Upon following it, she sees that those on the ground have come to a stop.

“A logical choice,” It’s just a compliment, she thinks. No need to get so flustered. “It’s getting dark.”

“Right as ever,” she smiles at her, and it’s that or being so high in the air that makes her heart flutter ever so slightly, “Now, Minerva…?”

* * *

She is woken at the crack of dawn (a time she does not particularly mind, but still) and is greeted by Cherche, yet again. They have idle conversation, and Miriel questions her on Rosanne customs and traditions, while Cherche asks the same for Ylisse’s. All in all, it is a refreshing experience. (Miriel is careful not to use the word unattractive or attractive this time. Cherche’s compliment, she decides, was just that. Nothing more. Just her thoughts. ...On her.)

She shakes her head. Overthinking this is completely illogical and unnecessary.

Thankfully, the somewhat timid ‘hello?’ from behind her tent door is enough to distract her. It is Lissa, there to check her wounds.

Some time later, she is told that she has healed enough. Not to have to be carried around, at least, just medicine and the redoing of her bandages for the next couple of days is all.

* * *

Dawn comes, and as Miriel is getting ready to march, a now-familiar head of pink hair catches her eye. And, it seems, by the way her face lights up

“Miriel! I was wondering where you were.”

She turns. Cherche.

“Minerva was wondering if you’d need to ride again. She quite liked that apple yesterday, I add, and--”

“Cherche.”

“Hmm?”

“I no longer injured enough to require being carried around. Marching will be fine.”

“I’m not asking because you need to be carried, dear.”

Her choice of pet name confuses her, but even so she frowns. “I’m not quite sure I understand the meaning of your words. It is not required, so--”

“It would be for your enjoyment, Miriel.”

“Fascinating. I had no considered that angle.”

“There’s no need to force yourself, however. If you don’t want--”

“No,” Miriel says firmly, before a small smile finds itself on her face. “It seems to me that spending time with you would be rather enjoyable. More so than others, in fact.”

Cherche laughs, and outstretches her hand. “Well, we’d best be going before the others decide to leave without us. I’m sure Minerva is anxiously waiting as well!”

Miriel’s hand hovers in the air for a few moments, before taking Cherche’s. “Of course.”

**Author's Note:**

> 2018 is over post self indulgent fics of rarepairs in a game that's 5 years old


End file.
